


Six Records of a Floating Life

by mydogwatson



Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [4]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M, Through the Years, always falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25954846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: A history of a love affair.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827328
Comments: 40
Kudos: 91





	Six Records of a Floating Life

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I will not lie. This title gave me some qualms. But I decided to experiment a bit and in the end, I like the result. I hope you will as well. Please let me know and cheer up my isolation. Oh, I will admit as well, that getting a trope for this one was tricky. I finally decided on Magical Realism. If you have any better idea, I’d be happy to hear it.

1

_AD 305  
Eboracum_

It was a most unusual order.

John had no urgent duties on the morning and so was still in the barracks when the courier arrived and handed him a small rolled papyrus. 

_Principales Watson, you will present yourself at the villa of Procurator Holmes this day at the fourth hour._

That was all.

John decided that if he were meant to be meeting with such an important man, he should put on fresh garments

Linen under-tunic and a clean subligaria around his manhood.

A short-sleeved woolen tunic.

The day was cool, as it so often was here in the northern reaches of Albion, so he donned his best gaiters to cover his legs before sliding his feet into hob-nailed leather sandals.

At least the task of dressing distracted his mind a bit from wondering—and worrying—about the summons he had received. He could think of no reason, at least no good reason, why Procurator Holmes would want to see him. He had never met the man, although local gossip had it that Holmes was quietly accumulating power that extended far beyond his duties with the Treasury. In truth, most of the gossip concerning someone named Holmes was about the mysterious younger brother. At least he had caught sight of the Procurator from a distance at the games, but the brother seemed invisible.

Finally, he strapped on his sword, a gleaming gladius hispaniensis, and tucked a dagger into his belt. Leaving the barracks, he glanced at the rather battered clepsydra and realised that he would have to step lively to arrive on time. One did not dare to be late to a summons like the one he had received.

*

The villa, on the edge of the city, was as beautiful as expected.

John followed one servant into the building, was handed off to another for the walk up a short corridor. They passed the Laraium, its carvings honouring the household gods, which was not as ostentatious as might have been expected and reached the atrium, where John was left alone. He stood quite still, but let his gaze roam. The pool to collect rain water was full. The blue and white mosaic floor was spotless. Corinthian columns led out of the atrium into the main part of the villa. Inside, he could see the pleasing form of a young male carved in marble.

“You are very prompt,” a voice said.

He turned his head and saw Procurator Holmes entering the atrium. “Sir,” he snapped.

Holmes was a tall, thin man, with hair that leant towards auburn, a narrow yet prominent nose and an appropriately haughty expression. He was wrapped in a white linen toga that was so pristine it almost glowed. 

Before either of them spoke again, two servants entered the atrium, carrying between them a wooden chair with arms and a back. They set it behind Holmes and he immediately arranged himself in it. “I can have them bring a sella, if you would like,” he offered out of what seemed to be only obligatory courtesy,

The thought of sitting on one of the low stools and trying to remain as dignified as necessary did not appeal. “Thank you, sir, but I prefer to stand,” he said.

His response seemed to please Holmes. “You come highly recommended by your Centurion,” he said.

John was a bit surprised. He had a civil enough relationship with Sholto, although they only rarely spoke outside of their official duties. For him to do something like this was unexpected. Whatever _this_ was.

“I have a rather specialised assignment for you, Principales Watson.”

John’s spine straightened even further. “I am here to serve, sir.”

Holmes’s lips twitched. “Indeed you are.” Then he paused, as if searching for the correct words. “I desire that you would take on the duty of acting as personal bodyguard to my brother, Sherlock.”

Whatever John might have been expecting, this was not it. He moistened his lips nervously. “Sir, my duties—”

Holmes held up a hand to stop him. “All of those details have been taken care of. You will take up residence here and begin your duties in the morning. While you are in my employ, I will pay your salary at a somewhat higher level than normal. Believe me, you will earn it.” The Procurator smiled and if John were the kind of man to get nervous, that expression would have made him so. “I hope you find this all satisfactory, Watson.”

Did he have any choice?

John only lifted his arm fleetingly, before spinning crisply around and following a servant out of the villa.

He paused just outside the entrance, taking a deep breath. It felt as if the world had been turned upside down.

“He has ordered you to spy on me, hasn’t he?”

Startled by the voice, John stiffened and automatically his hand went towards the dagger. Then, as the actual words reached his brain, he relaxed just a bit and turned to the left. The man standing there looked a few years younger than himself. His tall, slender figure spoke of the relationship with the Procurator, but there any resemblance ended. Sherlock Holmes, for it had to be him, wore a deep blue tunic with leggings that matched. His hair was a mad mess of dark curls and his skin bore more than a passing resemblance to the porcelain of the statue John had admired inside the villa. His eyes were green or maybe grey. His mouth was—at that point, John cut off his foolish train of thought and finally answered the question.

“No, in fact, the Procurator has employed me to protect you. Although from what dangers, he has not yet specified.”

The eyes—perhaps they were silver?—narrowed and seemed to study him intently. 

“I am Principales John Watson,” he said, feeling the need to speak. “A soldier and not a spy. I will not report anything that does not relate to your safety.”

“Hmm...” was all Holmes said for the moment. Then he seemed to reach some decision. “Do you know the taverna with the sign of the rooster?”

“I do.”

“Meet me there at the fifth hour tonight.”

John frowned at him. “So late?”

Holmes only shrugged. “Needs must, Watson.”

John was a bit put out [although he was not in a position to express that] by Holmes’ peremptory manner. “Actually, sir, I do not begin my duties until tomorrow.”

After a moment, Holmes almost smiled. “I see. Although consider that it might be a bit embarrassing for you, if I were to be killed just hours before you’re meant to start protecting me.”

“Are you likely to be killed in the taverna tonight?”

“One never knows.” Holmes raised a brow at him.

John turned to go. “I will consider it. If I am awake and bored, I might appear.”

“Could be dangerous,” Holmes called after him; the words seeming more of an invitation than a warning.

John just gave a careless wave over his shoulder in response.

He went to the taverna, of course, and Holmes [or Sherlock, as he insisted John call him] did not die that night. The assassin, who’d seemed bent on plunging a large dagger into Sherlock’s back, did die, however, dispatched quite efficiently by John. Sherlock seemed undisturbed by his narrow escape and just calmly summoned the vigiles to handle the details.

John walked him back to the villa and, for some reason, found himself chuckling along with Sherlock, although there was nothing humorous about the situation. “Until tomorrow, then,” John said when they stood in front of the villa, just as they had earlier.

“Tomorrow, John Watson,” Sherlock said and it sounded almost like a promise.

The words warmed and excited him in ways he could not explain at the moment.

Tomorrow.

**

2

1594  
London

They had met eighteen months earlier, brought together by a mutual acquaintance in the bowels of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, as Holmes engaged in some nefarious experiment that no doubt violated the laws of both man and God. John had since learned that ‘nefarious’ was a common state of being for the man with whom he now shared lodgings not far from the Tower.

A man whom John Watson, physician, was proud to call friend.

Sherlock Holmes had been introduced to him as a natural philosopher, although sometimes as a jape John called him an alchemist, which always caused Sherlock to protest voraciously and pace around their rooms to argue the point. His face would pink up delightfully and his long, slender fingers would push through his curls. At moments like that, he looked like a mad man escaped from Bedlam.

And John found him entirely charming. Not to mention desirable.

Which, of course, he never mentioned.

Instead, he kept up his meagre medical practice—meagre only because he spent far too much time with Sherlock, chasing villains through the foul streets of London and far too little time cultivating his wealthy patients. Still, the occasional gold coin he brought in helped.

This day he had spent the morning treating the wife of a prosperous wool merchant for her stomach ailment, using wormwood and balm. His success was limited and he feared that she had developed a tumor in her gut. But he did what he could. And now he had arrived back in their rooms to find Sherlock draped over the elaborately carved oak chair which had suddenly appeared one day. John was fairly certain that it had come from the home of the powerful Mycroft Holmes, senior advisor to the Queen and Sherlock’s brother. He never asked, however, deciding that in some cases, ignorance was best.

He unwrapped his heavy cloak and pulled off his gloves, “Cold out there,” he said, only half-expecting a response.

But Sherlock, it seemed, was not buried deeply into his own mind on this occasion. “Really, John? Cold? In London? In December?”

“Prat,” John muttered. “Have you an answer yet to the mystery of the duplicitous lawyer?”

“A redundancy, surely.” Sherlock flashed a quick smile at him. “Almost. We are going to the theatre this afternoon.”

“Fine.” It was then that John saw the letter on the table. It bore the distinctive signature of Mycroft Holmes. “Has your brother brought you another of his tedious cases?”

Instead of replying with his usual scorn, Sherlock only looked thoughtful. “It might, perhaps, be of some interest.”

John sighed. They never discussed the fact that Sherlock sometimes acted as an agent for his brother, moving within the murky world of spies and faceless royal schemers. John did not approve, but he held his silence on the subject. As on other things.

He looked for a moment at Sherlock Holmes, clad in his shirt and stockings only, long and lean and perfect, and thought about the secrets men kept. Suddenly, Sherlock met his gaze and, not for the first time, it almost seemed as if his friend’s thoughts were of a kind with his own.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them ever spoke.

The secrets men kept.

*

Their afternoon attending the theatre, in the hall of Grey’s Inn, was successful in ending the case of the lawyer and his mistress, who had disposed of his wife in a most unpleasant way. Miracle of miracles, John managed to see almost the whole of the new play, A Comedy of Errors, before he was dragged away by Sherlock for a foot race through the Inns of Court. At the end of that chase, John had his foot firmly planted on the lawyer’s spine as they waited for the watchmen.

Sherlock was always glorious at times like this. His color was high, he had lost his knitted cap whilst running, so his curls were rampant, and his eyes shone in triumph. John could only smile at him.

He thought that they would return to their lodgings and perhaps send a boy to fetch some ale to celebrate, as that was their usual habit after such a triumph. But instead, Sherlock announced that he needed to go to the Seven Stars tavern for a meeting. John was ready and willing to accompany him, of course, but Sherlock insisted that his contact had demanded that he should come alone. “Go to our rooms,” he said. “Get some ale in and I will be there soon.”

John was far from at ease with the situation, but there was really no choice but to give in. He stood and watched Sherlock stalk off into the darkness, doubt niggling at him.

It was not until he was back at their lodgings that he thought to look for the letter from Mycroft that he had seen earlier. This whole meeting at the Seven Stars had the reek of something with which that worm would be involved. He found the letter hastily shoved away beneath several books and folios and, not caring about privacy for his friend, read it.

_...it must be stressed, brother mine, that this is a situation fraught with danger of the most dreadful kind. It would be prudent to take your close companion along, as he seems an able type. Warn him that his life, both of your lives, will be at great risk..._

John stopped reading at that point.

He grabbed his cloak again and left the building at a run, which he maintained all the way to the tavern, stopping only when he finally stood in the doorway.

What he saw happening in front of him was almost like a scene Mr Shakespeare could have written for the stage. Sherlock stood, another man jumped up, his arm moved swiftly and then Sherlock clutched at his stomach, blood spurting, and he fell back. Before John could do more than cry out once, “Sherlock!” something crashed into the back of his head and everything went black.

*

He came back to himself some unknown time later, curled in his own bed, awakening slowly, confused and frightened.

The first thing he saw was Mycroft Holmes, sitting in the damned chair stolen from his own house, watching John.

“Sherlock?” John whispered.

The only response was a slow shaking of Homes’ head.

John did not even try to contain the hot tears that sprang to his eyes and then coursed down his face.

So many things were still unsaid and now they would forever be left so. He rolled over in the bed and turned his back on the other man.

There were no more words.

**

3

1804  
Bath

John made his announcement over supper.

His mother was talking about some ridiculous new hat she craved and his sister was nattering on about a charming new acquaintance she had met at the baths. John found himself almost missing his laconic father, who had never spoken much but who had at least provided a bit of sensible balance to all the female chatter. Sadly, a brain storm had taken him in the winter.

John also desperately missed his days of military service. Even more than all of that, however, he missed the time spent in Weymouth after his discharge. Weymouth was a town sadly lacking the charm of Bath, but which had a harbour. It had the sea. And, once, it had contained a pirate hunter named Sherlock Holmes.

But he daren’t think about those times or that man whilst sitting here in company with his mother and sister.

Their conversation had moved on, as most usual to the subject of his upcoming expected engagement. “I do hope you plan to put things in motion soon,” his mother complained. “Have you finally set an appointment with Mr Morstan?” 

“Not yet,” he murmured, concentrating on his cutlet.

Harriet giggled. “Having a collywobble, are you?”

Their mother frowned. “Where do you learn such words?” she asked. But her attention moved right back to John. “You are thirty-five, John. Time to wed.”

Everyone knew, of course, that her main concern was really financial. They had been in tight straits since Father died and the Morstan daughter came with a substantial pile of money. She was an only child, doted on by her father, who had used mostly legal means to assure his estate went to her and not to a distant male cousin.

There was a pause and John jumped in. “I shall be gone for several days,” he said. “Departing early tomorrow morning.”

“Where on earth are you going? This is very inconvenient. Miss Morstan expects you to escort her to the ball on Friday.”

“I am going to Weymouth to tie up some loose ends of my stay there.” John cut another bite of meat, but then realised that his appetite was gone. “I will be back n time for the ball. And when I return, I will set the appointment with Mr Morstan.”

That announcement brought much cheer to his mother and sister. At the same time, he felt like a man climbing the scaffolding to the hangman’s rope.

*

He chose to ride alone on his faithful Cleveland Bay, Henry, and also chose not to rush the journey. This was, after all, by way of being a pilgrimage. Because he had not hurried, it was evening when he arrived and went to his arranged room at the inn. The dinner served was satisfactory, the ale adequate and, surprising himself a bit, he slept deeply with no dreams.

Although he supposed that might be because John Watson was a man with no dreams left.

*

He breakfasted early and then walked to the port.

It was a sunny, pleasant day and John found a solitary bench where he sat and gazed out at the ships anchored shore. Here, in this place, it was so easy to be carried along by the past, like a man cast on the waves.

_”What in blazes is a ‘pirate hunter’ anyway? I never heard of such a thing.” John Watson, recently invalided out of His Majesty’s forces, leant against the railing and turned to face the man he had met two days earlier on the beach._

_“Of course you haven’t. I invented the job.” Holmes hesitated and then said reluctantly, “Well, my odious brother wanted me to become a privateer, but I work better alone. So now I sail on any ship I like, I track the villains to their lairs, and apprehend them.”_

_“Sherlock Holmes, pirate hunter,” John said, still amused. He looked at the slender man standing next to him, in his perfectly tailored frock-coat and breeches, both deep plum, and the ivory waistcoat, and thought that he looked more like one of the louche idlers that were found everywhere in the fashionable cities of the day. Until you noticed his eyes, with their quick-fire intelligence._

_John found himself more bemused than he should have been by the dark curls rebelling against the black ribbon trying and failing to hold them in check. “So, do you sail the Caribbean after them and lay claim to their treasure chests, then?” he asked._

_Sherlock was staring out over the water. “Most of the Barbary corsairs operate much closer to home. And they are not seeking gold, but slaves for North Africa,” he murmured._

_John resisted the urge to tuck one errant curl back inside the ribbon. “It sounds dangerous.”_

_“Wouldn’t be any fun otherwise,” Sherlock said, his tone lighter again._

_They looked at one another, two gazes meeting, holding far past any facade of courtesy. It felt to John as if the very earth beneath his feet had shifted in some as yet unknown way._

_The following three months had been the best of John Watson’s life._

_They rode about the countryside and visited nearby villages. They dined and indulged in fine wines. Most of all, they talked and the more they talked, the more John realised and accepted that he was in complete thrall to Sherlock Holmes. He would have happily spent the rest of his life in Weymouth, with this man._

_Sherlock, meanwhile, was ignoring the increasingly testy letters from his brother, demanding that he return to his duties. The letters were dispatched into the fire immediately._

_But then the older Holmes turned up in person and John could see that the argument was lost._

_Sherlock was a different man now, dressed in rough seaman’s clothing, his very stance shifted from proud arrogance to one of servitude. They stood in the shadows, not far from the ship that would soon carry him away._

_“Two months,” Sherlock said softly. “No more than three, I promise.”_

_John wanted to put his finger on those lips and tell the man not to make promises. More, he wanted to put his own lips on Sherlock’s and promise that he would be waiting. But, of course, he did neither of those things, because they did not touch, they did not kiss._

_At the last moment, they did embrace, swiftly._

_Then John watched Sherlock stride up the gangplank. At the top, he paused, turned, and gave a wave. John returned it._

_Then was the moment he realised that he loved Sherlock Holmes desperately and always would._

It was only one month later when John received the letter from Mycroft Holmes, informing him that, sadly, his brother had perished when the ship he was on hit the rocks off the Barbary Coast and sank, with all hands lost.

John left Weymouth and went to Bath.

*

The wedding was a lavish event, with most of Bath society in attendance.

At the breakfast that followed, John played his role perfectly. The happy groom. The contented husband. Inside, he felt empty, as if his heart had been ripped from his chest. The marriage had taken place and his family was secure. He supposed that mattered.

*

It was just a week later that he wandered out into the back garden of their new cottage to smoke his pipe, as Mary objected to the smell inside. He was standing in the darkness when the voice came from behind him.

“I bear a charmed life.”

Foolishly, his first thought was to place the quote. _Macbeth,_ he thought.

Then the voice itself penetrated. His pipe dropped into the marigolds and he almost followed suit, but two strong hands grabbed his arms, holding him up. “Are you a ghost?” he whispered, not yet looking around.

“There are no such things as ghosts, John.”

Then John turned and without pause wrapped his arms around Sherlock Holmes holding on as if to grasp onto life itself.

As they embraced, one thought ran through his mind over and over again.

_Too late, too late, too late..._

**

1891  
London

“I’ve always known that I was a man out of his time.”

“And what might that mean?”

Holmes turned around and walked back to his chair. He pyramided his hands and gazed at Watson. “That perhaps I belong nowhere.”

Watson considered that for a moment and then smiled at him. “Or perhaps you belong everywhere.”

“Possibly.” There was another pause. “There is only one thing of which I am sure, my friend, which is that wherever I find myself in time and place, you will always be at my side.”

“There’s always two of us.”

“Indeed.” Holmes seemed to debate what to say next, but then his intrinsic honesty prompted the words. “I am a bit surprised to find you sitting before this fire, John, rather than your own.”

“Mary is out this evening,” Watson said shortly. “She leads a busy life.”

“Ah, so for you, any port in a storm, eh?” Holmes’ tone was probably not as light-hearted as he had intended it to be.

Watson looked at him sharply. “This fire is not my second choice,” he said. He toyed with his pipe for a moment. “Your company has never been my second choice.” That seemed to cut very close to the truth. Too close. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I thought that perhaps she is once again working for your brother, so probably I oughtn’t to complain.”

Holmes seemed uncharacteristically hesitant for several moments, then he reached inside his pocket and took out a letter. “My most recent correspondence from Mycroft suggests otherwise.”

“What does he say?” Watson finally set the pipe aside and focused his attention completely on Holmes.

“Perhaps you should read it for yourself.” Holmes hesitated yet again and then held out several sheets of paper.

Watson took the letter between two fingers. He found himself reluctant to read the words, as if some hidden and dreadful truth would be revealed. A truth that would change things. But then he realized that change was sometimes for the best. The path he was on felt very wrong, as if fate had made a great error. So he read Mycroft’s dry, official-sounding words that told a stark truth about Mary Morstan, the AGRA treasure and so much else. By the time he had finished reading it all, his stomach roiled with both anger and shame. He had married that woman, had lain with her, had...

Finally, Holmes spoke. “My brother started to suspect some time ago that she was double-dealing, so he began an investigation.”

Watson’s gaze sharpened. “Did you do it for him?”

“No. He knew better than to ask.”

Watson stood and went to the table. He poured himself more port and, after a moment, poured more for Holmes as well. Once he was back in his chair, he gave an almost rueful smile. “You have always known that I am an idiot.”

“Smarter than you look,” Holmes said lightly; it was an old joke between them.

“I should never have married her.” Watson sipped the port. “This is the fire I should always have been in front of. You are the one I should always have stood beside.”

“I abandoned you,” Holmes said.

“And you came back.”

There was a pause.

Holmes stood and returned to the window, staring out. “I will always come back to you, John,” he said softly.

Watson joined him at the window and they stood together in silence, watching two elderly men, arm in arm, traverse Baker Street, slowly and carefully.

“Shall we grow old together, Sherlock?” Watson asked.

“I can envision no other future for myself. At least none I would care to have.”

It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Watson to turn his head, to meet Holmes’ gaze and then to lean just a bit forward and press his lips to Sherlock’s. As one, they moved back from the window to embrace.

Holmes gave a sigh, a long and fragile exhalation that brushed against Watson’s cheek.

They held the embrace until it felt real. Until it felt true.

**

1923  
London

It had been a late night.

Too many bright young things, too much expensive champagne, far too many lies had been spun, which made the case take longer than it should have. Which meant that they had not made it back to Baker Street until dawn was already edging over the city. No doubt for many of the party-goers that was normal, but John Watson was not that young or possibly all that bright.

Of course, when it came to partying with the rich and wanting-to-be-famous off-spring of London’s elite, a certain consulting detective fit right in at the 43 Club in Soho. Put his elegant self into a proper tuxedo, tame his wild curls with too much gel, let his voice become its most louche and Sherlock Holmes looked perfectly at home.

John, meanwhile, was busy serving drinks to the noisy, already intoxicated crowd. The fact that he was invisible to them, as a good servant always was, made it easier for him to observe. Part of his attention, of course, was always on Sherlock, flitting about like a dedicated social butterfly. One moment he was doing the Charleston with a willowy blonde in a sparkling silver dress, the next a buxom redhead dragged him onto the dance floor to do the Black Bottom. Soon, John spotted his friend [well, yes, as far as much of the world knew] chatting in the corner with Katie Meyrick, the former wife of a Brighton physician, who owned this club and several others in London. They were both laughing over something. Maybe she was just happy to have been bailed from the cells yet again.

With a sigh, John hoisted a tray filled with used glasses and headed for the kitchen. Eager to do his part in catching the killer before there was another death, he made some conversation with the woman washing the glasses, although with little knowledge gained. She was convinced that the killer was “one of them foreign types.”

John finally left the small, humid room and went out with a fresh tray of drinks, eager to see what Sherlock was up to.

Except that the man seemed to have vanished. John did a quick visual scan of the crowd and saw no sign of him. Then he walked the whole perimeter of the room, ostensibly to offer drinks, but anyone would have had to be quite quick to be able to grab one.

Sherlock Holmes had vanished.

John took a deep breath. It was far from the first time something like this had happened and it always worked out. Sherlock could handle himself.

But John could not help but think of the bodies of the four victims and the dreadful damage done to them by an extremely sharp knife.

He dumped the tray in the corner and headed for the rear door, drawing a curious look from dishwasher. Automatically, one hand went to his pocket to check that his service weapon, the Wesley MkVl, was there. It was and he kept his hand on it.

Remembering [or, more accurately, unable to forget] the previous victims, John moved slowly, silently, through the alleyway, the only illumination coming from a pale moon overhead and a few inadequate lights over the rear doors of closed shops. The traffic noise sounded near, but the roaring in his ears of _find him, find him, find that bloody idiot_ drowned out everything else.

Surprisingly, at last, some sounds cut right through the urgent refrain. A low voice, a soft scuffling, coming from behind two large black rubbish bins. John slowed and stayed in the shadows as he moved closer.

“...all you posh boys, with your fancy clothes and tarts. I didn’t spill my blood at the Somme for people like you.”

“Neither did I serve only to die in some filthy London alley,” came Sherlock’s reply. His voice sounded strained, but still with a hint of his usual insouciance. Unlike John [and the killer, apparently], Sherlock’s war service had kept him from the actual battlefields; instead, he worked in the murkier but no less dangerous world of espionage.

“I can’t even find a decent job and your sort throws money around like it’s worthless. It ain’t fair.”

John was slowly scooting closer and finally, he could peek around the corner of the bin and see the two men. Sherlock was on his knees and, like the dead men, his hands were fastened by a pair of Hiatt police cuffs. John made a mental note to let his lover know that letting himself get captured by a homicidal maniac was really not on. Completely unacceptable, in fact. It would not be the first time he had been forced to make that point.

John made no noise at all, but something, probably a rat, stirred.

Instantly the man grabbed Sherlock by the hair and put the knife edge to his throat. “Show yourself.” 

John debated and then he stepped out, keeping the pistol hidden for the moment. “Drop the knife,” he said, sounding almost mild.

The man did not. Instead, he pressed the blade a little deeper into Sherlock’s neck.

“You cannot kill us both,” John said. Finally, he held the pistol up, pointing it at the man’s head. “If you harm him, you will be dead before you hit the ground.” There was no hyperbole. Instead, the words had the hard edge of fact.

Rather amazingly, Sherlock held his silence. His eyes never left John and all John could see there was faith. A certainty that was nearly more frightening than the knife at his lover’s throat. He almost believed that he could see the thoughts running through the murderer’s fevered brain, most clearly of all the moment when he decided that the chance of killing one more posh boy, followed by a quick bullet, was more appealing than the hangman’s knot.

He twitched minutely and John fired.

And, just as predicted, the murderer was dead before he crumpled at Sherlock’s feet.

*

John woke first and rolled over to look at Sherlock in the afternoon light.

Once they had dealt with the police and endured a brief visit in the alley from the always bothersome Mycroft Holmes, they finally made it back to their flat. Foregoing the usual bedtime rituals, they merely peeled off their clothing and crawled into bed in only their drawers.

He watched Sherlock sleep, not even able to picture the other side of the bed being empty. John Watson did not flatter himself that he possessed any great imagination, despite his scribblings in The Strand magazine. Nevertheless, he had always felt a sense of _something_ from the very moment he met Sherlock Holmes. Fate, perhaps. Destiny.

He realised suddenly that Sherlock had awakened as well and was looking at him with eyes that were always more grey upon first awakening. “You seem to be thinking very deep thoughts,” Sherlock said, his voice a bit gravelly.

John gave a soft laugh and reached out to pull Sherlock into his arms. “I was imagining us as star-crossed lovers, always meant to meet.”

“How fanciful.” Sherlock nuzzled at his neck.

“Indulge me.”

Their bodies began a slow movement together.

“Very well,” Sherlock said. He pressed his lips to John’s ear and whispered damply. “I would chase you across the stars to make you mine. I would vanquish demons from the bowels of hell. I would always find you and always love you.”

John could not help the giggle that escaped and then he rolled over until he was stretched out on the length of Sherlock’s body. “I adore you,” he said.

“Quite right, too,” Sherlock replied.

Then all conversation ended for some time.

**

2025  
Sussex

The case ended up being fairly interesting, if only because the victim was a scientist, who had an excellent laboratory in what once had been the attic of his country home. The police inspector in charge must have communicated with good old Lestrade, because he kept an eagle eye on Sherlock every time he stepped into the room.

Which meant that Sherlock did not manage to pilfer nearly as much as he had hoped. Still, even John’s coat pockets were fairly full. “I hope there is nothing in any of those vials that will eat my flesh if it spills,” he whispered to Sherlock, who was still studying the blood splatters.

“Nonsense,” he replied. Then he paused and reached one hand into John’s pocket and pulled out the vial with the red cork. He put it into his own pocket.

John glanced at the officers standing at the other end of the room, before leaning even closer to Sherlock. “I rather like your flesh in its present condition as well,” he breathed, mostly just to see the faint pinkness rising in Sherlock’s cheeks. He was still as susceptible to flattery as a teenaged girl.

“Working, John,” he muttered.

John just grinned at him and returned to searching for any clue that might help solve the case.

And, somewhat surprisingly, it was John who found it, going again through a bookshelf that the police had already looked at. The photograph was tucked into the pages of Volume XVII of the handwritten journals that filled the shelf. John took the photo out and looked at it carefully. A couple embracing on a cliff over-looking the sea. The man was the dead scientist. And the woman looked familiar, although she was now older by several years and her hair had changed colour and style. 

“She never mentioned this when we talked to her,” John said, holding out the photo.

Sherlock studied the image. “Indeed she did not. According to her, they were never more than colleagues. Or, really, mentor and student.” Then he started thumbing through the journal, until reading something that made him smile faintly. “I did wonder at her statement that Professor Day was willing to share credit on the paper. In here, he makes it quite clear that he has absolutely no intention of sharing anything with her.”

John felt quite chuffed that he had managed to find the last piece of the puzzle and helped resolved the case. Although the doctoral student had killed her lover and mentor in a rather bloody way, when they showed up with the officers to take her into custody, she went quite calmly.

Instead of accepting the inspector’s offer of a ride back to the B&B, they decided to walk. It was a pleasant afternoon and there was no sense rushing to catch a train for a return to London. They were no longer two impetuous young men feeling the need to be constantly moving, constantly _doing_ something. They would take a walk and then spend the night in the B&B. It would be a pleasant break.

John could not remember a time when it did not feel absolutely natural to take Sherlock’s hand in his. They strolled through the fields rather than taking the more direct road, idly discussing where to have dinner. Sherlock suddenly came to a stop. “Look at that, John.”

John turned to see. Sitting on a small rise, looking out over the water was a white-washed cottage with a thatched roof. It was tidy, surrounded by wildflowers, and there was an estate agent’s sign posted on the gate. “Lovely place,” John agreed.

Sherlock hummed a response and then tugged John’s hand. “Let’s look.”

They went through the gate and looked. From the windows, they could see that, inside, the cottage was clean and well-kept. After a few minutes, Sherlock led the way around to the rear door and then took out his small tool kit. “Sherlock!” John chastised. “We can’t go in.”

The door opened. “On the contrary, we most certainly can,” Sherlock replied with a quick smile.

And so they did.

Ridiculously, John felt at home immediately. It was almost as if he had a memory of the place, although he knew that he had never been there before. They wandered slowly from room to room, sometimes choosing where a particular piece of furniture could go or a picture hang. Where there would be space for bookcases.

It was nearly an hour later before they left the cottage, carefully locking the door again. The rest of the walk back to the B&B was made in silence. Once back in their room, they emptied their pockets of the items taken from the dead man’s laboratory and cleaned up for dinner.

They walked to a nearby seafood restaurant and decided mutually on fish and chips. John had a cider and Sherlock a glass of white wine. Neither of them had yet mentioned the cottage and that carried on through the meal. They shared a huge slice of chocolate cake and drank tea and, finally, the last bite of cake swallowed, Sherlock said, “We belong there.”

John nodded. “It almost felt like...coming home.” He feared that Sherlock, the rational, logical one, would mock him for that fanciful remark, but he did not.

“Coming home,” he said instead. “I like that.”

And, as simply as that, the matter was decided.

*

Three months later, they spent their first night in the cottage.

They made love slowly in their new bedroom. It was passionate and yet comfortable in a way that made everything better. Made every touch more precious, every kiss more meaningful. Sherlock fell asleep almost immediately afterwards.

John, surprisingly, found himself strangely wakeful. He slid from the bed and wrapped himself in Sherlock’s blue dressing gown before going into the kitchen for a drink of water.

He felt at peace with this new adventure in their life together. It was not retirement, of course, not yet, but it was a slowing down, a chance to be together in a different way. He turned off the light and stood at the window with his drink, gazing out at the garden, where Sherlock planned to replace the shabby bee hives with new ones.

And as he looked, John thought he saw movement in the garden. He blinked, but still saw nothing beyond a vague impression of someone in the moonlight. A tall figure in what looked like old-fashioned beekeeping gear, vague, but still somehow familiar. Another shadow hovered nearby and, as John watched, the two figures moved away and vanished into the night.

After his first moment of startlement, John only smiled softly, swallowed the last of the water and returned to the bedroom. He slipped off the dressing gown and got into bed again, wrapping himself around Sherlock Holmes. It was right and it was true.

It was forever.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Six Records of a Floating Life by Shen Fu


End file.
